


Let Me In

by IfMulderCouldSeeMeNow



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt and comfort, Memories of attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 19:41:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1911345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IfMulderCouldSeeMeNow/pseuds/IfMulderCouldSeeMeNow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was the big bad wolf and she had the house made of bricks. He wasn't getting in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me In

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own any part of Hannibal, nor do I make any profit from these writings (pfft).

 

"Tell me, Dr. Du Maurier," he says "have your beliefs about me begun to unravel?" His face is no longer in the darkness and she can see him, truly see him. It’s been so long. She hasn’t seen his person-suit unzip since he found interest in Will Graham and she started crafting her walls. Brick by brick, she blocked herself from him. He was the big bad wolf and she had the house made of bricks. She meticulously stacked each one, cementing it with her memories and fears, thick like mortar. He wasn’t getting in. She cut herself from him, cut herself from _them._ He had no use for _them_ any longer. She continues to eat the ‘veal,’ sipping generously from her red wine as he does his. The coy conversation continues, each wondering who will be the first to break down the _clear, defined_ wall that she has placed around them and their relationship. She hasn’t let him touch her in months…she hasn’t been able to stop thinking of the implications of their relationship, of her _attack._ Noticing that the wine bottle was nearly empty- _Had she really had that much to drink?-_ she rose to get another bottle of her finest, first placing her hand on the table briefly to gain stability – _you’ve had nearly five glasses you fool-._ She knows he caught the slight slip with his ever-so-perceptive eyes and she curses herself for drinking so much around him. He wasn’t supposed to see. He wasn’t her psychiatrist.

Normally, she emptied bottles alone; she’d forgotten what it felt like to be tipsy around another person. She’d started before he came, breaking out a glass previously. His arm extended with precision, fingers closing around her wrist, knowing what she was going to retrieve. “Bedelia,” He says softly, “you’ve had enough.” He knows that he’s breaking the professional boundaries, but it’s time. They cannot pretend anymore that they are just client and psychiatrist. She’ll tell anyone who asks half-truths about them; that he refused to let her retire, that he’s just a client. What she won’t tell him is that she knows him better than anyone and that he knows her deepest secrets; that they shared sheets and showers and now have nothing to share because she can’t move past the hands around her neck, _not his hands_ but hands nonetheless.

His hands that orchestrated the attack; his hands that believed she betrayed him when he signed the referral over to her, knowing the patient would eventually attack her. How he actually thought she’d betray him. Hands around her neck that are not _his_ but might as well be. Hands that strangle her in rage but she can only feel an attack of revenge, she _him._

She’s barely tipsy and can still cognitively process everything. It’s not enough. It’s never enough, no matter how much she drinks. She can always remember.

It’s been nearly 7 months since he’s touched her; since she scurried out of her practice for good and made herself a hostage of her own home. He rose from his chair, now standing in front of her. It feels familiar to be standing so close again finally, but her height still alarms him. Despite the contraptions she wears on her feet, she can’t hide the fact that she’s an utterly tiny woman. He tips her head up so she can look him in the eye. He doesn’t need to tell her that she’s made it this way; that she’s carefully constructed walls around herself to keep him out; that he’s found a patient and friend in Will Graham to allow himself to forget about her.  She knows. And he misses her. His substitute could never become a full replacement. He needs the real thing.

She gasps when his hand finds its way to her lower back, and suddenly she’s being pressed against the wall of her home. Her eyes clench tightly when he kisses up her neck.

“Let me.” He states instead of questioning, but she responds nonetheless, with her eyes clenched tight.

“Y-yes.”  She says, pushing the memories from her mind. As a psychiatrist she knows that she should seek help, but he _is_ help. He’s all she needs and she been pushing herself from him for far too long. The buttons of her shirt are removed effortlessly with the fingers only a practiced surgeon could acquire. He’s now moving his lips to her jaw and she’s hungry. He finally reaches her mouth and begins his onslaught, giving her kiss after kiss. His tongue slides in her mouth and she tastes him. The veal is no comparison to the taste of his lips on hers, his tongue sliding across the roof of her mouth. She mews as his hand fondles her breast through her now open blouse but the sound is muffled and lost in his mouth, which covers hers and molds her lips. His left hand is slowly rising up her neck to cup the back of her head but he pauses when his fingertips move over the rough skin that’s so different from her creamy flesh. Uneven and hidden always by her hair, he could feel the scar for the first time; feel her. His hand widened over her neck.

_Tighter, tighter. She could feel the life being squeezed from her body as her lungs screamed for air. She scratched and hit as he shook her aggressively with his hands wrapped firmly around her neck._

_“Pl-please” Her eyes began to roll back into her head and her body was becoming limp when suddenly she could breathe again. How was she breathing with his hands still around her neck? When she finally opened her eyes to the blurry world, he was laying on the ground; dead. Suddenly she moved back aggressively, swatting at her neck and trying to get the phantom hands away. She could feel his rugged wrists still pressing into her throat even as he lay dead on the ground and Hannibal was suddenly at her side and-_

“Get off of me!” She shouted, suddenly pushing his body off of hers and covering her mouth with her shaking hands. Her eyes showed terror, while his showed remorse and… …she knew that face; those eyes, “Don’t _pity_ me.” She sneers through her trembling hands. “I-I”

“It’s not pity,” He hisses, suddenly close to her again. He calms himself, breathing deeply, stowing away the piece inside him that wants to kill this woman: devour her flesh in the hopes the Bedelia, _his Bedelia_ , will return. These thoughts are hopeless. This is _his Bedelia._ “You can’t keep hiding,” he whispers, inching closer as she covers her body with her hands, thinking she is ruined.

“I can’t get _hi_ s _hands_ off my body.” She whispers, looking down and away from him. “I can’t be _myself_ when his hands are on me.” Her eyes are red rimmed and he sees what he’s done to her, finally sees. His hand reaches slowly, his fingertips touching her skin, before his whole hand rests on her face, cupping it. She doesn’t flinch at his touch but instead leans into his hand, using her own hand to press his closer. She can feel her hand between her cold one, and holds it there .“I’ve _missed_ you.”

His other hand comes to rest on her hip and he pulls her lightly to him, his warm body pressed against her, the red shirt she’s wearing ruffling. He wraps his arm around her narrow waist, she’s thinner than she’s ever been, as the other moves from her face to her hair. She takes a shuttering gasp but relaxes, pressing her head to his chest, smelling his unique cologne. The wood-burning smell from cooking the veal. His aftershave.  

“Do you remember the night after the Opera,” he questions as his hand slides across her back. She knows immediately what he’s talking about. She couldn’t forget. The music isn’t playing but she remembers a night that seemed like lives ago. She remembers how he spun her softly, and dipped her. How the composer’s piece bounced off the walls of his home and how he encouraged her to remove her shoes. The feel of his hand on her lower back against her bare skin. His lips against her unmarred neck and the throaty moans she’d made as she pulled him closer. Closer. Closer. How his hands wouldn’t let her go. How she’d felt so safe dancing with him. Kissing him.

“We danced for hours,” she says, remembering his whispers into her hair. How he told her about her sister- something she’s tried to get out of him for months in his sessions.

“Do you remember the music,” he coos softly, knowing that she does.

“Your favorite composer,” she mumbles as he begins to sway with her. She can hear the notes softly in her ears as they sway. Back and forth. Back and forth. She remembers from her days as a psychiatry student that patients swayed to calm themselves down. She doesn’t read into her thoughts any longer. Her hand is inside his suit jacket, clutching the shirt tightly, and he’s moving his hand over her hair and back. He feels the tears hot against his skin, bleeding through his white dress shirt. “I miss you. I’m alone,” she whispers, her voice breaking.

“I’m here, If you let me in,” he whispers into her hair, the words sending tickling vibrations into her ear. The walls are down; the carefully constructed bricks removed. She tilts her head upward and looks into his eyes. She knows what she’s doing; that her ‘professional’ relationship was doomed to fail anyway. He’s staring at her earnestly, wanting nothing but to help her, and she wants to feel again. Remember how it feels to be his. How it feels for him to be hers. She closes her eyes and remembers the man holding her, as they sway to the silence, memories of music reverberating in her ears. He is not her attacker. Hannibal cares for _her,_ for _them._ She wants to be _them_ again; a pair. She pushes away the thought of hands ripping her skirt and blouse, bruising her face with harsh punches, and concentrates on how he sways her. His hands are soft and warm and like butterfly kisses on her skin as the pad of his fingertip slides across her face, removing a tear that slides from her closed eyes. She’s decided. She won’t push him away any longer. She’s never been more sure of anything in her life. His hands won’t let her go. They won’t let her fall again.Her voice comes out as a murmur passing through her plump lips.

“Please. Stay.”

She feels him smile against her golden hair and finds that a smile tugs at her own lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Please tell me what you thought.   
> Currently accepting Hannidelia/Bedannibal prompts.


End file.
